The Dragon's Ascent
by syolfor
Summary: Not everyone is made for what is expected of them. When an empire falls, Genji has no other choice but to be reborn. The storm that ensues threatens to take over not only him, but the peace others fought so hard for. Crashed and burnt, his only hope is far and unattainable. He seeks for an answer in the most unexpected of places, and follows an angel back into the skies.
1. Ashes

**Ashes**

The death of his father had been as much a surprise to himself, as it wasn't to the rest of the clan. If he had had the time to think about it, he would probably question the knowing stares that passed between guards as he walked the corridors. If he had ever actually attended any of the latest meetings, he would have probably been angered by the high amount of plans that no longer needed his father's consent. At the time, his life seemed set in stone.

Now, as the echoing sounds of his running feet bounced between alleyways and the neon signs on the walls slowly flickered off, there was no time to question how he let it happen. Now, he could only fear the unrelenting shadows that kept catching up to him. Most of them faceless, and yet a single one that he knew too well.

He would be lying to himself if he said he didn't know how it came about. All the signs had been there for the longest of time. Even before he knew how or why he had to obey, the stares and whispers of the family had followed him. They called him weak of mind and lacking of duty. To him, they were mere ants manipulated by his father. While he could go out and reap the benefits of the clan's money and status, it was them who had to dirty their hands for it. He never had to. To be honest, he relished in the idea of them beneath him, struggling to reach that which had been given to him since birth. Below his father's care he was untouchable, invincible, and most importantly, unpreoccupied.

Now they stood watching him through spies and hidden bystanders, mocking him. While he fled and climbed the walls of the city he once walked through freely, while his own brother shot behind him without mercy, they mocked. He knew it. Despised them for everything they had taken from him in such a small amount of time. His home. His family. His future. They had taken it all and now reached for his life.

The sword on his back bounced heavily against him as he ran. In his eyes, the weapon given to him for protection was at the moment no more than dead weight. Of what use could it be when escaping through narrow streets, or hiding amongst piles of garbage? Nothing. Just as much as the time spent within his home's walls, or the conversations held with soft smiles between brothers. It all amounted to nothing.

He knew he couldn't run forever; his breathing came in short gasps and his legs struggled to keep him upright. He didn't intend to. He never had. Some part of him still hoped a second option would appear before him, let him be someone else. His mind began to reel and tangle, looking for a solution. Remembering fighting techniques. Regretting.

Eventually, his own confused steps led him back to the only safe place he could remember. His home. By the time he realized where he was, he already knew it was too late. The foreboding steps that echoed through the eerie emptiness of the mansion only served to make his breath hitch.

"How very fitting to come here, brother." He spoke as he always had. With disdain. Genji turned. For a split second he tried to remember a time his brother's brow was not furrowed. It didn't come.

"There is no place left to go now. No dark alleys to creep in or pretty girls to fight over." Slowly, he reached behind him to pull an arrow from his quiver, carefully docking it into the bow. Genji's eyes darted from place to place, measuring.

"You know you cannot run now, brother." Their eyes met. Genji tried to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat and what came out was a low, animalistic grunt. "It is about time you learned to face your destiny head-on."

The first arrow came fast and hit hard. The shock of the hit, however, was a lot harsher. A part of Genji still hoped this was nothing more than a brotherly quarrel to set him straight, as many had been before. That a couple of punches could be enough to get his message across. Now, realization slapped him across the face.

He had limited options. With his left harm compromised, he would be forced to wield his sword with a single hand. Climbing was out of the question. Another arrow was readied a split second later, and fired as he rolled out of the way. He unsheathed, and dashed forward with his sword pointed straight at his brother's heart. Hanzo just pirouetted to the side and hit him with the bow across the back, sending him rolling onto the ground.

"It is a shame, brother, that such a magnificent sword was given to someone who would rather spend his nights drinking, than training his body." His mockery fueled Genji's anger and resentment, forcing him to stand up and try a wild slash to the chest. Hanzo back stepped. Another slash. A pirouette. Another one, and in a smooth movement Hanzo sent Genji's sword rattling to the ground with a dull sound.

Tears formed in Genji's eyes, running freely through the creases of his snarl. It had always been this way. In all the training they had done together, Hanzo always came out on top. No matter how much he tried, how much he copied him or asked for extra lessons, he would end up beaten and mocked. Frozen by those cold, disappointed eyes. Eventually, he had stopped trying.

"Why, brother?!" Genji's voice crackled, fighting to be heard. "Why choose them over me, your own blood?!" His eyes lowered to the ground, defeated. "I don't understand..." It came out almost as a whisper, and yet it seemed to vibrate and bounce in the emptiness of the house.

Hanzo's gaze came from above, scornful. "Of course you don't Genji. You do not understand anything about duty and even less about family honor." A kick, and he crashed down. "You do not understand what it is to have an empire to uphold or a name to keep clean."

He loomed over his little brother now, losing all composure. "You will never understand anything about how we fight or why!" By now, Genji's body had grown limp, responding only with twitches and grunts of pain. "By choosing to ignore who you are, you chose this!" Blood trickled down between them, indistinct. "You chose to abandon your family for your petty, egotistical pleasures!"

Hanzo stood, panting. He scoffed at the lowly view beneath him, blowing loose strands of hair from his face. He grabbed Genji's hair, pulling him into a kneeling position where he could barely keep upright.

Slowly, Hanzo unsheathed the sword strapped onto his back, looking it over with a scowl. "You ask me how I can choose them over my own brother. You are wrong. I have no brother." He raised the sword high above his head, looking at his brother for the last time. For a brief moment, his posture trembled and his eyes watered. Then they steeled. With a sharp movement his sword slashed across his little brother, cutting into the scroll behind him.

Genji laid on the floor, barely conscious. He couldn't feel his body at all. His sight was blurry, but it didn't matter. He perfectly remembered his home. He remembered the beige flooring that now was tainted red with his blood. He remembered the beautiful gardens beyond the entrance, and the dragon painting above him. To him, it was all there. He could walk among the corridors of the house. He could see his father's silhouette inside his studio, barely illuminated by fickle candlelight. He could walk up to his brother, and meditate with him even if he never did it before.

He was calm. Even if everything around him turned red and then black. Even if screams and gunshots faintly made their way to him, and an uncomfortable coldness creeped around him. In that moment, he could walk among the ashes left behind by his body, and let himself be taken away by a single, warm voice.


	2. Doubt

**Doubt**

It had been a busy week for Dr. Ziegler. She sat on her reclined chair, staring vacantly at the ceiling of her lab. Her ponytail had long lost its hold on her hair, letting loose strands drop. Dark bags pooled under her eyes, and the dense smell of sweat surrounded her like a mantle. In that moment, she was disgusted with herself. Not because of her state, but the things she had agreed to. Her hand scribbled absently on a blueprint, and then reached for one of the many unfinished cups of coffee in her reach.

Ever since she had officially joined Overwatch, it seemed paperwork and research piled on her desk endlessly. It didn't bother her at all. To her, this meant she was making advancements and being helpful. It didn't mean, however, that she couldn't use a little recreation. That being more work. Personal projects and field medicine always got enough adrenaline pumping through her veins to keep her from growing lethargic.

The Valkyrie suit had been the epitome of both. It had taken several years only to flesh out the idea enough to begin working on actually building it. A couple more to have a working prototype. Now test rides were the next step to a functional result. Of course, she would let nobody else use it for her. She might argue it was not completely safe in its current state, or that the necessary knowledge to operate it was already known to her. The real reason was, in a way, much more selfish. She wanted to be the one to save people, to know everything first-hand.

Many had argued she was not ready. That the cruelty of a real battlefield would be too much for a girl her age. She had smiled, reassuring those above her that she would come to no harm. That she would be safe. But internally, she had scoffed at them. She knew perfectly what a battle entailed. She had been in several. She had seen enough death and suffering to know that she needed to be there.

And yet, when she had stepped out of the carrier wearing her suit and distant gunfire reached her, a knot had formed in her stomach. She despised violence. She hated the idea of people dying, of people hurt. And she had been afraid. Even when Morrison himself had guarded her closely and a platoon of highly trained soldiers had already swept the area. She had been afraid to fail those in need, and experience death again.

When they had first found the highly mutilated body right at the mansion's first room, they had wasted precious seconds. People had prevented her from approaching, saying it might be an enemy. She didn't give a damn. Not then, not now. To her, a body that is in need of care falls under no special clauses. The suit had taken a little more time to fully engage than she had expected, but soon the gentle stream of biotic nanobots had helped her stabilize him.

His breathing had been greatly spaced and weak, and his body temperature had already begun to drop. She had spoken to him gently. Encouraging him. She didn't know if patients actually heard her. It was more of a hopeful chant to keep herself focused than anything else, but she always did it. As with many things, her work involved much more luck and hope than others perceived. They had watched her intently, still weighing the chance of him being an enemy, battling with uncertainty. But once he had been sufficiently stabilized and she had ordered it, they had carefully carried him to the carrier.

The rest of the night had passed by in a similar pace. She had healed and tested. Sometimes protected. When the stars had slowly begun to fade and light hit her skin, the troops had been recalled. As she had walked through the mansion's entrance, dirty with blood and tired from work, she had looked up at the garden's trees. The cherry blossoms hadn't flowered.

A sudden knock at her lab's door startled her, making her jump in her seat. It was the head surgeon, beckoning her towards him. She already suspected what he was going to say before she even stood up from her chair. A pit of annoyance and discomfort settled in her stomach, threatening to rip her fake smile apart. She opened the glass door, waiting for him to speak.

"The patient has woken." For a second her lips trembled, giving her away. The man in front of her eyed her up and down, grimacing. "As has been stated previously, it is your duty to gain his consent for the procedure." A small, crooked smile pulled at the corners of his lips. He seemed amused. "Of course, it IS to be expected of a young, beautiful girl such as yourself to coax any man into her will." Angela frowned slightly, fighting to keep her calm.

"As has been discussed amply before, I will comply with the orders given." She hated bargaining. And manipulating. She knew perfectly well that the only reason for her to get the consent was because of her gender and age. Always the pretty image, always thought to be naïve. She had disagreed with the surgery completely. But she had been called young and unwise. As if turning the man into a weapon was the right thing to do. "And I'm sure that you know I do not agree in any way with this so-called enhancement procedure of yours." She threw the words at him, almost spitting through her stiff smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a form to prepare." She didn't bother to keep her facade once the door slammed shut, hoping the man would see her annoyed expression clearly as she turned around.

Now, it was time for a bath. She let the thoughts run freely through her mind as the warm drops of water did through her body. No matter how much she obsessed over it, she never seemed to reach an alternate solution. The commanders wanted the militaristic approach of Overwatch to continue unbound. For them, the young man currently in the brink of death was nothing more than an opportunity. A mean for their violent ways. It was not right. She would have never taken part in this if it weren't for the other option. Either he lived to become a cybernetic weapon, or he died. No follow-up treatments. No second chances. It was clearly stated that if the procedure was refused, Overwatch would immediately cease any life support. That meant her patient would die. That she would let another life slip past her.

She sighed. The water had begun to run cold. With a final scrub she stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel. As she let her hair down and began to run a brush through her hair, her mind continued to loop. It just wasn't fair. The man had no direct involvement with Overwatch whatsoever. Sure, he had been found inside the mansion of the Shimadas, one of the largest criminal organizations in Japan. But definitely anyone killed by the Shimadas could not be part of them. The reaction seemed disproportionate to her. Something was missing.

As she walked the long halls of the Japan headquarters and entered the patient's room, her will steeled. He laid there, tubes connecting him to countless machines that buzzed silently. His breathing was more of a continued gasp. His face was still swollen and unrecognizable. His eyes were closed, but she doubted he could sleep. This man should not be forced to take this decision. She should not be forced to present it. It was all wrong. And inevitable.

"Hello." As the cold voice of a professional left her mouth, the disgust inside of her grew. "I am Dr. Ziegler. I was the one to find and stabilize you. It seems that you have finally woken. How do you feel?" She knew the question was idiotic. He felt like shit. The weak groan that came from him also proved he couldn't speak.

"Take it easy. You had several broken bones and severe organ damage. You lost too much blood." With difficulty, his eyes opened enough for her to see the brown iris in-between his burst veins. He probably could only see blurry contours and shadows.

"It is highly unlikely that you will survive without the introduction of technological aid." She gulped. It was true. In order for him to go on and live a normal life he needed prosthetics and organ implants. Maybe if she phrased it correctly she wouldn't need to lie.

"It would involve partial reconstruction of your body with cybernetic parts." His pupils dilated, and his breathing rate increased. The swollen mess of his face morphed into what she could only guess was a frown. "This procedure is highly invasive. And dangerous. We would need your explicit consent for it to go through." She could feel the pressure in her stomach increasing, threatening to make her vomit.

"O-of course we would maintain the highest security considerations for your well-being." She could feel herself sweating. His expression was bewildered. He probably didn't even know where he was. Silence followed, only broken by his mismatched breathing. It had been instructed to her that the less information she gave, the better. But she couldn't do it. She would not play with half-truths.

"However… there is something Overwatch would like for you to do in return for their help." She looked away into her lap, re-reading the form. She could feel his eyes burning her, questioning. She wanted nothing else but to bolt out the door.

"This… procedure." She had to compose herself to continue. "Involves the installation and use of non-essential prosthetics and enhancements." His eyes didn't react for a while. When the information finally was processed, they darted. If his breathing got any more erratic, she would probably have to sedate him.

"Overwatch also expects these enhancements to be put to use in any matter they see fit." How could she be part of an organization that could do this? That could undermine the basic human right of freedom? Were those few more lives she saved truly worth this? She could see he was desperate now. That she was desperate.

"This conversation is being taped. Please, blink once if you agree and twice if you disagree." She truly hoped that he would just agree. That he would make it easier for both of them. But he didn't. Furiously, he blinked twice in rapid succession. She sighed, letting a silent whimper escape her at the end of it.

"I- I should clarify." She moved slightly, scraping the form with her pen. "If it is decided the procedure is not to be done… Overwatch will immediately stop providing any health care or aid." The last words came rushing, in a much more high-pitched voice. He grew still. Stopped breathing. His heart monitor beeped alarmingly.

Even before he turned and blinked once, she knew he had given up. His weak shoulders plummeted, and all the tension that he had built up seemed to deflate. She stood up, thankful her legs still managed to keep her upright. As she moved to the door at a hasty pace, she could still feel his blank stare on her back. She needed to vomit.

The day of the surgery came much faster than she wanted. She was needed inside the operations room. The prosthetics and implants chosen for the reconstruction of the man were infused with biotic technology. One she had developed herself. They were meant to be used to alleviate the host body's initial rejection of foreign bodies. While theoretically they also augmented the body's resistance and regeneration, she never intended for them to be used this way. Somebody had taken her designs and adjusted them, introduced storage passageways, hydraulic devices, sharp edges.

As she stood near the surgeons, adjusting the flow of nano machines into the body, she watched. Watched as they unceremoniously cut off his extremities, even those which still could be used. Watched as they opened him up and pulled at his insides. Watched as they screwed her prosthetics onto him, and tried their functions with electric shocks. Watched as a broken man slowly turned into something complete, but inhuman.

When the surgeons left the room, and he was finally left in her care, she extracted the fine tube with which she had injected him. She looked at him with a face so contorted with unshed tears she could feel it cramp. She whispered an apology to him, through chokes and whimpers. She refused to look at her own face, reflected by the shiny plates that she had helped create.


	3. Stranger

**Stranger**

There was a gentle buzzing, like the incessant crashing of waves in a beach. He could feel it behind his ears and vibrating through his chest. It was reassuring at first, but now it had begun to palpitate. To push and invade his thoughts. The volume increased to the point he had to open his eyes. It diminished, but didn't go away. He looked around. Hundreds of cables connected him to machines he vaguely remembered. The pristine white sheets covering him only disoriented him further. His body was stiff, but strangely weightless. Any kind of movement took a lot more concentration. With a frown, he let his head drop back into the bed.

Distant memories begun to bleed into his mind, blurred and fragmented. A hospital, clearly. Someone asking for consent. Anger and pain. So much pain. But why? A fight? Maybe in the arcade, or a bar. Hanzo would kill him when he got home. A pang of fury. That wasn't it. He remembered his brother's face. He had been there. He had been yelling. He had been… chasing him? Because of father. Yes. Hanzo had… killed him.

He sprang up from the bed with a gasp, realization sinking in. He wasn't dead. And this was not a hospital. His heart threatened to burst through his chest. The stiffness was gone. His face decomposed into a snarl and a yell. Yes. As he crushed the covers between his hands and cursed, he remembered. That bastard had stabbed him in the back. His own blood. For duty, he had said. He scoffed and threw the sheets with all the force he could muster. They tangled in the cables. He looked down.

His arm. All thoughts stopped. For a second, his mind became blank. Then it exploded. What kind of shit was this? Metal? A bloody prosthetic? The consent. A doctor had visited him. Said something about technological aid. The words non-essential prosthetics burst through. Fumbling, he managed to remove the sheet completely after several tries. This… couldn't be happening. Just below the gown, his knees were metal. His calves. His feet. He tried to move his toes. They weren't there anymore.

He needed to stand up. To find a mirror. He plucked the cables out as fast as he could, ignoring the pain. Twisting and stumbling, he fell to the floor. Cold sweat formed on his face, dripping onto the floor and drenching his gown. Every order he gave took seconds to occur. The stiffness had come back. He had to use the bed as leverage, pulling himself up. There was no mirror. Only machines, whiteness and that bloody logo. Overwatch.

He would have to find himself a mirror. Every single step was lengthy, premeditated. He buckled countless times. Sometimes managing to grab something, others falling to his knees. Eventually, the glass door was right in front of him. The hall was empty. Even if alarms had gone off the second he unplugged himself, nobody seemed to come. He prepared to push, but froze. The reflection on the door was as clear as any mirror.

It was as he feared. Metal plates covered every inch of the extremities he could see. Between the cracks, a muscle-like fiber engorged or thinned as he moved. But his face. It was... not his. Dozens of branching cuts divided it, red and swollen. His skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot. His jaw was gone, replaced by more plates and fiber. This was not him. Not remotely. This was not the face of someone who could get any girl to sleep with him. Of the charismatic king of the arcade. Of a powerful heir to a criminal empire. And definitely not of a dragon.

A choke, and a whimper. With a powerful pull, he ripped the gown from himself. His chest was just as bad as his face. Where once carefully sculpted muscles rippled, pale skin and scars glared at him. Holes with metal cylinders laid across his stomach, glowing with a vibrant shade of green.

His reflection coiled, falling into its knees. It curled and screamed, letting tears fall freely from its face. It pulled at its metal skin, uselessly. When the doctors finally arrived, it lashed out. Punching. Kicking. Cursing. When it was sedated, he watched it grow numb as his own sight grew blurry. He wondered why.

As calmness finally took hold of him and doctors filed out of the room, licking their wounds, he wished he had told them to turn off the machines. The incessant buzzing hadn't gone away.

"Genji Shimada." Jack's voice was commanding, as always. He stood in the middle of the room, pointing at the holographic representation of her patient. "Heir to the Shimada clan, and our only chance to finally finish this operation." A silent gasp ran across the room. Angela nodded. It was to be expected. As much as she wished for the man to be an innocent victim, she knew Overwatch wouldn't treat just anyone with such a special treatment. However, her guts still tangled at the thought of what was done to him.

"With the reconstruction of his body, we gained a skilled agent. The surgery has been done successfully, giving us-" A low grunt from the opposite side of the room stopped him mid-sentence. A visible shudder came from every person present in the room. "Cut the crap Morrison." Gabriel sat with his feet propped on the table, casually looking at the ceiling. With a curt movement, he looked at Jack square in the eye.

"This kid's nothing more than your consolation prize. We all know the Shimada operation failed. Our intel lost all relevance the instant the head of the clan died. So stop trying to make it sound all grandiose and get to the point." Jack glared at him, clearing his throat. With a gesture of his hand, he called Angela over.

A long breath of air. Inhale, exhale. She stood up, and made her way to the front of the table. Everyone looked at her expectantly. It was no secret she had participated in the surgery. Even though she had been given no previous information about it, it apparently had been planned for a long time. She wondered if the decision of bringing her in was influenced by the creation of her prosthetics. The sole thought of it made her dizzy.

She cleared her throat twice, and spread the holographic images necessary for her explanation. "Yes. His body was rebuilt with several enhanced prosthetics. Both his arms and legs were replaced." She pointed at the blueprints of the extremities. "They are fitted with both biotic and mechanic technology, which will greatly increase his strength and agility." The fact that they would also negate a great portion of tactile sensitivity was left out, mainly because she could not bring herself to say it.

"The left arm was built with storage compartments for small weapons of choice, which will be decided by his strike commander." Someone coughed. Jack looked at her, silently asking her to hurry up. "His feet have small retractable razors, which will allow him to traverse steep or even vertical surfaces, as well as mute the sound of his step." She could tell them how he would lose most of his sense of taste, or how the prosthetics would demand he spend a great portion of his life in maintenance. How he would never be seen as human again. But they wouldn't listen, and they wouldn't care.

"Above all, the medical department reminds you that even if his regeneration is faster than a normal human being's, continued exposure to bullets or any kind of great force will kill him easily. It is in Overwatch's best interest to use him sparingly." She knew the last part would be ignored. As with any kid with a new toy, the military department would push him to the edge, testing just how far he could go.

"And…" As her voice lost the professional intonations she commonly used, most looked at her with an annoyed expression. It was not uncommon for her to deviate from the carefully crafted speeches others made for her. They all knew she had a bleeding heart. It made them question her ability to make rational, objective decisions. She thought that made her the only person in the room to have a moral compass.

"I hope you all will take into account the delicate state in which this patient currently is. He needs several weeks to completely ease into his new body, but more importantly, to adjust to his new life." She looked around, sheepishly. Only Reyes and Jack were staring at her. "Thank you." She slowly walked back to her seat, fighting the urge to yell at those who ignored even the most basic notions of empathy.

"Thank you Dr. Ziegler." Jack resumed from his seat, walking back up to the spotlight with determination in his step. His eyes gleamed with mischief. "Genji Shimada will be assigned to work as a Blackwatch agent." A chair creaked angrily as Reyes adjusted his posture.

"Training will start as soon as he can stand." Angela huffed, busying herself with the files in front of her. "I conclude this meeting. I'll leave him to you Gabriel." With that, all stood up and walked orderly towards the door, trying to avoid the obvious confrontation that brewed between the two commanders.

Angela walked behind them all, clutching the files to her chest. She wished to help him. To get him to adjust to what Overwatch could be. She knew it wasn't perfect. But it stood for something. It was a beacon of hope to people around the world, who turned to them to advance towards peace. She knew nothing about what life was for him before, but maybe being here was better than dying by those closest to you. Maybe he would see she only wished the best not only for him, but for everyone. Maybe he would help her ease her guilt.


	4. Weapon

**Weapon**

Days were uneventful. Once the constant disbelief and self-pity gave way to anger, there was not much left to do. Being bed-ridden was as boring as being tutored by the mentors back at home had been. He couldn't help but compare. Every person he saw, every conversation he heard, any emotion he felt were immediately translated. It made him miserable.

At times, he would wake up disoriented. Would wonder and worry. Then he would remember, and the resentment would come back. After the first incident, he had been tightly secured to the bed. A doctor had come in and assured him there was no way out using violence. Not like he intended to actually harm anyone. Nobody knew he was there, and even if they did, they would let him rot. He didn't want to be killed. He'd be dammed if the self-preservation that got him here in the first place didn't serve its purpose.

So, he was stuck with cables coming out of his body and restraints pinning him to a hard mattress. Like a monster. At times, it would become too much. He was never the calm type. He would thrash and yell, promising bloody murder to his brother and clan. The nurses steered clear of his room now. Better for him. He didn't need any other white surface with an Overwatch logo.

Now was one of those moments that seemed to occupy most of his awake time. Staring at the ceiling blankly, letting the bright lights guide his mind to paths of sweet vengeance. He stayed completely still. His arms and legs no longer had the necessity to twitch or move after prolonged periods of inactivity. They just dropped down. If he didn't acknowledge them, it was almost like they weren't even there.

The door slid open with the characteristic sound of a high-end facility. It pulled him out of his thoughts. He was used to the constant check-ups and the curious stares of the personnel. They usually did their business silently and efficiently, letting him crawl back into his thoughts unbothered. Not today. As soon as they took the first step into the room, he knew they were not an every-day visit. It seemed like ages since he last heard the clacking of high heels.

She was beautiful. Golden hair, classical features, and a graceful step that made her seem to glide. When she sat next to him and looked him in the eye, hers shone a deep blue. He was awestruck. Years of practice almost threw her an instant pickup line. He caught himself, the silent reminder of his reflection still fresh in his mind.

"Hello Genji." She spoke softly, like a caress. The way his name rolled off her tongue was enough to mitigate the surprise of hearing it again. "I've been informed by the nurses that your strength and coordination are making steady improvement. How do you feel?" It took him a while to answer, still not used to the otherness of his new mouth.

"I feel fine." Somehow, it felt like he knew her from somewhere. A distant dream, or maybe a nightmare. As much as she was beautiful sight, something in her presence made him uneasy. "Perfect! I will then remove your restraints. If you could please stand up for a quick demonstration." As she nimbly undid all the clasps, he examined her face closely. She lacked the concealed disgust every other doctor had when they looked him over. Or maybe she was just a better actress.

As he stood up and walked around the room, her eyes followed him. She kept a small, reassuring smile at all times, but her eyes didn't wrinkle as they should. He couldn't decide if they were sad, or pitying. "It seems all is in order. Fine motor skill is still lacking, but it is expected to develop soon enough." She stood and headed for the door, the slight sway of her hips hypnotizing.

"Please follow me. The commanders would like to see you." She seemed to trust him. No trembling, no nervous looks over the shoulder. Pure confidence as she floated through the doors. A couple of weeks ago, she would have been his favorite type. Those he had to slowly coax into accepting him. Now, she only made him conscious of his state.

"Who are you?" It hadn't escaped him she didn't wear a nametag. While he didn't remember the names of any of the people that checked on him, the presence of the tag had become expected, familiar. She, on the other hand, was unmistakably different. The question made her turn around. Her smile still kept its place, but the nervous tremble in her voice hinted at something different.

"Oh, I hoped you would remember me." Her hands coiled. Her eyes refused to remain steady. "I am Doctor Angela Ziegler. Head of medical research." Then it hit him. The blurred vision of a doctor asking for consent became clearer, morphing into a blond girl with beautiful features. His gut clenched and his head fell, trying to conceal the tell-tale features of his fury. He let her guide him, silently.

A part of him had thought the girl would somehow not belong to Overwatch. That she hadn't been part of what was done to him. Maybe her angelic features had misled him. Or maybe the prospect of living the rest of his life in a pathetic state had, for a second, made him yearn for something different. Something he could latch on.

But he was alone. His clan had never wanted him there. His father was dead. His brother had chosen duty over him. Even an organization that proclaimed justice backhanded him when in his most vulnerable. He had no future to choose for himself. No place to go back to. No one to lean on. Even those that seemed kind or different would always choose themselves. He had no space for them anyways. And certainly no space for hope. As the sound of their steps filled the air, and moisture began to seep into his eyes, he chose to think of anything else.

The place was much larger than he expected. It was an endless maze of glass surfaces he avoided looking at. Small touches of orange, blue and metal broke the monotonous white he had grown used to. He found it boring and inorganic. Flashes of the abundant gardens of his home entered his mind. There was no comparison.

He had never given much thought to Overwatch. They were just a distant presence the clan tried to avoid. Now, the sheer magnitude of the imprint they left on the world was evident. As they traversed the corridors, ample windows let him catch glimpses of multiple buildings in the compound, as well as people working on all sorts of research he couldn't understand. He was insignificant.

"So… what do you think?" Her voice was muffled by the ample distance he had let grow between them, and yet it commanded his attention. Her question was left unanswered. He thought many things he couldn't bring himself to say. Rather, he looked at her steadily, forcing them both into a stop.

"I don't need your pity. You have done enough." He didn't miss the sudden watering of her eyes, or how her lips twitched downwards to then press tightly into a line. He didn't miss her jaw clenching and the way her hands grabbed her files for support. It felt good. Like victory. The rest of the walk passed by in silence and a feeling of triumph.

"So, this is the famous Genji Shimada." The man in front of him seemed to tower over him, even while reclining casually on the table. His presence was dense and intimidating. "Morrison, you never told me he would be this short… or ugly." But that didn't mean he would let himself be insulted. He was in no mood for the scornful stares and teasing speeches. As much as he had wished to punch the bastard's wit out, the other man's hand on his shoulder prevented him. Instead, he glared.

"Cut it out Reyes." The others presence was just as strong, albeit more professional. He removed his hand, noting the growing tension in Genji's muscles. "I am commander Jack Morrison, and this is Gabriel Reyes, head of Blackwatch." The man was a poster boy in every sense of the word. Blonde hair, chiseled features, toned body, determined stare. Probably also a dazzling smile. So much perfection made Genji recoil. This, for some reason, was amusing to Reyes.

"Oh. It seems the runt has a better sense than I thought." A deep grunt, and the man stood up completely and walked towards him with a purpose. "Listen kid. You are part of Blackwatch now. We are the ones that get shit done. We do things that no other part of this organization has the balls to do. It isn't going to be pretty, or easy. You are under my command now. And you damn better be worth it." Reyes eyed him up and down, seemingly satisfied with the glare he was receiving. "We start immediately. Morrison will lead you to the training grounds." He looked at the other commander, almost expecting a refusal. But he remained silent. As the man walked towards the entrance, he suddenly turned around with a frown. "And go get something to wear."

Reyes exited the room, leaving behind the sound of heavy stomping. "You will find someone outside to guide you towards your quarters and the training grounds. Welcome aboard soldier." Morrison wasn't looking at him, but rather at the place Reyes had been. He seemed annoyed and angry. But above all, worried. Genji didn't answer. He just headed towards the door.

He encountered a man in the corridor who showed him just what he was told. On the way, he was given a training suit. He was received at the training grounds with shouts and expectations. His prosthetics refused to work properly, and the strain would sometimes leave him breathless. But through the ruthless orders of Reyes and the heavy sweat falling over his eyes, he found himself with the tiniest of smiles. It felt good to have a purpose.


	5. Overwatch

**Overwatch**

It was simple enough. Get in, kill the target, get out. They had given him all the information he could need. Guard shifts, blueprints and schematics all laid down orderly, efficiently. There had been no real warning. One day, Reyes had simply called for him. The next he was aboard a glider headed for Japan's headquarters, alone. His breathing was shallow, and he could feel the frantic beating of his heart. But he wasn't nervous. A smile kept trying to creep on his face. When the carrier landed with a tremble and the door opened, he let it.

He was immediately and discretely dispatched to the site. He could hear Reyes' orders playing in his ears, reminding him of details that were forgotten as soon as they were heard. He wouldn't fail. It didn't matter most still thought he would run away or turn on them at the first opportunity. Didn't matter that if he was caught, he would be left behind with no second thought. No. All other voices and opinions were background noise to him. He came with a single purpose, and that was to kill.

He knew Overwatch was using him as an easy way to get rid of the Shimadas. They counted on his previous experiences to get the mission done. To him, there was no difference as long as his clan's blood ran through his sword. The vehicle came to a stop, and a small pat on his shoulder signaled they were in position. He grabbed his weapons, running the side of his hand through the blade's edge. It was given back to him some time after the first months of training. They told him it was found near him, drenched in his blood. The irony only served to make the moment sweeter.

He recognized the building as one of the many warehouses where the clan stored weapons and other contraband. He used to come here with his father and brother to learn what they called "trading". Hanzo and him would stand back as his father discussed numbers and shipments with the man in charge of the zone. Sometimes fights would break out or a rat would be flushed out. Behind the backs of bodyguards and the security of guns, those had been nothing but fieldtrips to him.

Ahead, two guards stood at the entrance, barely illuminated by a dim light. They talked idly, not paying attention. He could have easily found a way around them. Yet, both men dropped to floor. A second later, he was entering the building unseen. The path wasn't clear. As the night progressed, bodies fell one after another. He dodged, climbed and killed, adrenaline flowing freely through his body. The communicator buzzed, bullets bore into him, but to no avail. He could see the fear in their eyes, feel the strain, the pain. It was exhilarating.

In the end, only the target remained. He had made sure it was that way. The sound of the man's pleading echoed between the walls. Genji stood in front of him, letting his victory sink in. Letting the hatred boil within him. He took his mask off, but the man didn't look at him. He had his arms above his head and his eyes on the floor. Sweat and tears rolled off his face. In some other situation, he might have recognized him. Now he only saw his death.

Genji had so much to say. To scream and accuse. To blame. So he let his blade do the talking. When he finally walked away, the yelling in his communicator came through. The bodies on the floor became visible. The many wounds on his body bled.

He was received at the headquarters by a very angry videocall. Apparently, he had jeopardized the operation and had refused to follow direct orders. They called his methods unnecessary and over the top. But he had completed the mission. He knew it. And they knew it too. He would be going back to Switzerland without mayor consequences.

He spent the rest of the day away in the medical unit, replaying his first mission in his mind over and over. The hatred hadn't gone away. It was still there, lurking. He felt sick.

* * *

He sat in the carrier, quietly observing the people in front of him. Even now, after dozens of missions together, they kept a visible distance from him. It didn't bother him. It made his work easier. When they worried for each other and stalled the mission, he could go ahead to fulfill his own. No restraints. So, when the carrier landed and they walked off together, he silently stared at their backs. He only knew the names of half of them.

Reyes talked of cooperation, and the obligation of supporting your squad. When on missions, he restricted their interactions to only that. And even after all the times Reyes yelled for him to work with the team, they were still strangers to him. He exited the carrier with the sole purpose of getting to his room. Yet, he was stopped.

Dr. Ziegler was waiting for him, as she did every time he came back from another murder. She would insist on running maintenance on his prosthetics, and redo any medical procedure performed by other doctors. He would try his best to avoid or ignore her, wanting nothing else than to distract himself. But she would get her way most of the time, apparently undeterred by his angry glares and lack of response.

Most Blackwatch agents whispered behind his back. Said they would kill to spend some time with the doctor, have her "check on them". He would give them his place if he could. The doctor annoyed him at her best, and made him remember many things he barely managed to keep out of mind. Her stare was by far the worst. Even if most people in Overwatch had already gone through the stages of fear, disgust and apprehension to eventually tolerate his presence, she was still stuck in pity. Her eyes looked at him the same way they did when she first offered him that smile, and it still made him feel the same anger.

"Genji, over here." Her voice was as warm as always. He at least had to accept she was perseverant. He stood in front of her, arms crossed. Her smile trembled for a second, but came back as intensely as before. "I have something I would like to show you. Something I've been working on." She had never tried to show him any of her projects before. Their interactions had been strictly medical, and he was happy to keep them that way. He wanted to know where she got the idea that he would like to see her work. He began to speak and let her know he had no time for her pet projects, but she wasn't finished.

"It has to do with, uh…" She glanced at the retreating members of Blackwatch, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I think I found a way to give you back your taste." He was surprised. Ever since his initial reconstruction, all other procedures had gone towards making him a better weapon. For him to jump higher, run faster. Never had someone proposed the idea of something so mundane. It seemed suspicious. At first, he thought maybe Overwatch was using him for testing. To see if the omnic freak could take yet another operation. But the doctor looked at him with wide eyes and a nervous smile, not the professional coldness other Overwatch members used with him. He nodded.

He was nervous. The doctor said the operation had been completed without a hitch. He could feel the familiar numbness of anesthesia wearing out, but his mouth felt the same. It had barely been hours since he had been informed of the opportunity, but still it had been enough to raise his expectations. While he had been unconscious, he had dreamt of the delicate taste of fish, and the onslaught of flavor a full meal could bring. He had hope. And he knew how easily it could be crushed.

The doctor arrived, carrying in her hands a small tray. She laid it out in front of him. They were chocolates. "These are swiss chocolates. The sensitivity might still not be as strong, but we should know if it worked by now. Try them." He could see her expectations. The way she moved her weight from foot to foot, and slightly clenched her hands. He grabbed one, noting how it didn't melt in his hand. Whatever the result was, he would remain inhuman. With a flick of his hand, he threw the chocolate into his mouth.

For the first few seconds, he could taste nothing. He couldn't help but show the disappointment on his face. The doctor frowned, and began to explain all the alternate procedures they could try. He didn't hear her. Slowly, something sweet expanded in his mouth. Silky, creamy. It was watered down, bland. But it was chocolate. For the first time in more than a year, he could feel a genuine smile form on his face. And he let it be.

The doctor looked at him with her own smile. As he ate all the chocolates on the tray, one by one, she began to recount all the research she had made. But he was far away. As the initial happiness began to diminish, he couldn't shake a feeling of discomfort. The doctor he knew pitied him, but would always be professional. She had the same agenda as the rest of Overwatch. Therefore, she didn't really care.

"Why do this?" Her rambling slowly came to a stop, and her eyes lost the gleeful glint. "I wanted to help you." She gently lowered herself on the bed, looking at him with that same old expression. "The nurses told me how much it affected you not being able to taste the food. I thought maybe this would help you feel… more human."

He could feel the anger rising within him before she even spoke her final words. With abrupt movements, he stood up and headed for the door. "You do not know what it is like. Of what it means to be human for me." He stopped at the entrance, refusing to let her see his pain. "I've said this before. I don't need your pity. And I don't want it either." She was silent. Then he exited the room, slamming the door behind him.

At night, he sat in the dim lights of his room, staring at the steaming bowl of instant noodles in front of him. The package had been with him for a long time now, at the same time a sweet memory and a brutal reminder. He never thought he would ever cook them again. Once, eating had been a pleasure. Something he did with his friends after a fun-filled evening. Now, it was a chore only shared by himself and his room.

The first spoonful was glory, as was the last and everything in between. Memories came crashing one after another, and the taste lingered long after he was finished. He looked at the empty bowl. His hand still lingered near it, clutching the chopsticks the same way he always had. And for a moment, he was human again.

* * *

Another mission, another meeting with Reyes. At some point, it had come to be expected of him to do some wrong at them. It was something of a monthly chat of theirs, involving more yelling and angry glares than talking. Not this time. Reyes stood in the shadows, as always. His eyes were looking steadily at him, but his mouth didn't move.

It was Morrison in front of him. The one doing the yelling. As much as it was a special occasion the commander took time off his schedule to come talk, he couldn't bring himself to listen. He knew what they wanted from him, and he damn right wasn't going to give it to them. He was here for his own reasons.

He had had to infiltrate and bring information. It hadn't been difficult. Had he wanted to, it would have been done flawlessly. His abilities had been recognized early on, and someone had finally made the decision to send him on an important mission. Something about the function of god programs. He didn't care. He wasn't an errand boy. He wasn't here to play fetch, and even less do it without killing a bastard.

So, knowing what it is they wanted, he set out to do it in the most unpractical, problem-inducing way. He might have crossed a line, but he had lost the fear for his life the instant he noticed how they treated him. Beyond a soldier, and even beyond a human being, he was a huge investment and a dirty secret. As much as they preached about justice and "doing the right thing", they would keep him around just to keep themselves intact.

Even now, after knowing he had compromised the security of millions, all he could think of was what they could do about it. In the end, he had actually gotten it. Many people had died. Some had survived. Pictures of him along with many Blackwatch agents were circulating the internet. But the information was being decoded by Athena, and many more lives would be saved.

"Look at me! Do you understand what you've done?" Morrison was livid. He spat at every word. Thankfully, it all stopped at his visor. "Are you even listening? Are you looking at me? For fuck's sake… Take that thing off!" Genji froze. He crossed his arms defiantly, but remained silent.

"Take that fucking thing off! Right now!" He didn't want to. As a matter of fact, this had a long time coming. He didn't move. Morrison was about to pounce on him. A vein popped out of his forehead, and his hands twitched forcefully. But he didn't. He stilled, and let it out in a glare.

"Stop being such a fucking brat. This…" He gestured around him, still keeping his eyes on him. "Is good. What we do is good. We are fighting for a better future. And you? You are throwing it away. We gave you an opportunity-" At this, words tried to fumble out of Genji's mouth, fueled by a sudden rage he could barely control. But Morrison wouldn't let him. He kept on talking, ignoring his words. "- to make something out of yourself! To take a better path!"

He couldn't let him finish. His rage wouldn't. His words raised in volume, drowning Morrison's voice under his own. "The only thing you gave me- the only thing you made me into, is a monster!" He walked forward. "What kind of better future could there be for someone like me?" Morisson looked at him. Unfazed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Reyes take a tentative step forwards.

"Sometimes, sacrifices are made. You became what you needed to become, for the greater good." Fury, and sharp yell. "A sacrifice I never chose!" Now, Reyes stood next to him, almost touching him. Morrison still glared at him from his pedestal. Like he understood everything. Genji scoffed.

"It is easy to say that commander, when the greater good has never demanded a sacrifice from you." He turned to leave. Neither of them tried to stop him. The corridors were as bland as they always were. Faceless people scrambled to get out his way. Others were pushed out of it.

At the training grounds, piles of scrap piled at his feet. The force of his blade's strokes was enough to shatter them. Those around him looked on with fear and hint of admiration. The speed and strength this new body had given him enabled him to do so much more. He was so much more. He was helpless.

* * *

It was one of the many nights he couldn't sleep. When he could find no comfortable position, and the buzzing broke the silence like an alarm clock. Nights he would stare at the uniform darkness above him, and think of what got him here. Of who was to blame. Of how things had changed. In nights like these, he knew there would be no rest. So he stood and dressed as he always did. Put on his armor and helmet, and headed for the training grounds.

At first, these nights had been filled with screams and punches. With pained grunts and the destruction of anything that crossed his path. Now he let the fury tire him, waited for the memories to be swept away by his sweat. He knew they would come back. Maybe another night, maybe tomorrow. While eating. While walking. It was inevitable. So, it would start again. But for a moment, they would leave him alone.

He had learnt the exact layout of the Swiss headquarters the first few weeks of training. He knew exactly how to get anywhere he pleased, and how to avoid anyone while doing so. At night, the bright fluorescent lights dimmed, and the doors to most rooms locked. Yet, the training grounds were always open. There was never a time someone wasn't punching or shooting. Maybe they came here for the same reasons he did, wishing to forget.

Today, only a single person shot at the targets. Over and over again, with mechanical precision. He stopped for a second when Genji approached, but didn't speak. It was known that at night, it was a time for silence. Even more so when it came to the Shimada.

Hours passed by with the same repetitive sounds of bullets and slashes. When the sun rose, Genji headed for his room. His muscles ached, and the heat inside his armor was suffocating. Still, his mind was unclear. In a last attempt at distraction, he took a wrong turn and headed for the cafeteria. He rarely came here. The idea of anyone being able to see his face disgusted him. There was a reason he almost never took his helmet or visor off. As Reyes had said when he first put it on, "It's much better when we can't see your ugly mug."

It was empty. The lights flickered on at his presence, illuminating the rows of tables in front of him. He sat down, resting his head on his hands. There was no escaping it. It would never go away. Not until he finished his mission. Not until he could see his brother's eyes close forever. Maybe he was missing something. A clue. A witness. Maybe if he forced the information out of the next target he could get a solid lead. Maybe-

"S' mightly lonely in here at this hour, ain't it?" His face snapped up, looking at the man in front of him. A ridiculous hat, a flashy belt and an obnoxious voice. That was Jesse McCree. Out of all the Blackwatch agents he was forced to work with, McCree was the only one that actively tried to talk to him. While most had given up after the first couple of tries, or had never gone near him in the first place, he was constantly there, trying his patience.

"What are you doing here? Mopin'?" At some other time, he might have told him off, as he had done countless times before. Mc Cree would just shrug and move along. But he was too tired. His answer was silence. "Well, ain't you rude." Still, he moved to sit next to him, pulling out a cigar from under his clothes. For a while, neither said anything. McCree puffed out smoke, seemingly interested by the wall in front of him. Genji looked at the table below him, unable to continue his train of thought. The clinking of metal and leather followed the man's every movement.

"When I first came 'ere, I really hated 'em. All of 'em." He still stared in front of him, almost as if talking to someone only he could see. "They took everythin' I knew from me. Wasn't perfect, but it was somethin' ya know?" He tapped the cigar, letting the ashes fall freely onto the floor. With his head propped on his hand, he turned to stare at him.

"But you grow used to it. To anythin'. S' only life after all." With that, he stood up, throwing the remaining cigar with a flick of his fingers. "You and I should go get a drink sometime. Bein' alone's always the worst part." He didn't wait for an answer. Both knew there wouldn't be one. A tip of his hat, and he disappeared back into the corridor.

Genji stared at the empty entrance. At some point, his mind had cleared. The familiar fatigue of a long day slowly clouded his mind. Morning was already here and a shower was long overdue. A smirk stretched playfully on his lips, and he knew nobody would see it. A drink didn't sound so bad.


	6. Change

**Change**

Morrison stood with his back to her, clutching the table next to him fiercely. His eyes stared intently at the hologram ahead of him. She could hear his labored breathing, could see the tension contorting his shoulders. Ahead of him, a single person spoke with the flat intonations of an impartial messenger. All around them, people stood like statues. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The silence inside the room only managed to make the voice louder. Imposing.

"-The images have circulated all over the world. Millions of people have shared them on social media, and governments are beginning to comment on the matter. While their source is still unknown, several reports have been made linking the famous hacker known as Sombra with the leaking of these images." They looped. Over and over again. Men in black killing. Men stealing. Torturing. Most of them unidentifiable. And yet, the bright glint of metal and vibrant green among them so obvious.

"Overwatch has denied any knowledge regarding the origin or nature of the images, refusing to make any further comment. So, what do you think Martin? Is Overwatch responsible for these men, or are we just being misled by this hacker?" Morrison's knuckles were white. Below his hand, the table began to crack. Angela's chest clenched. She knew what this meant. All people in the room did. Still, nobody spoke.

"I don't know Sophie. But their credibility is hanging by a thread. Their refusal may prove to be-". A sharp sound, and then silence. Morrison stood in front of broken shards, his fist still raised. Then, he turned sharply and walked out of the room with heavy steps. He didn't look at anyone. Didn't spare a glance behind him. Nobody stopped him.

Angela looked ahead. At the people in front of her. At the broken pieces of the hologram. At the cracks left behind by Jack. At nothing. Her mind was running ahead of her, and she couldn't catch it. She was worried that something would happen to Genji. She was angry at the possibility of him being guilty. Nervous about the implications this had on Overwatch. Apprehensive on what was to come for everyone. Paralyzed.

A scraping sound made her look at Gabriel. His eyes were dark. Determined. At some point in the past years, it had become his normal expression. He almost didn't seem surprised. She had known him for such a long time. He and Morrison had been inseparable. The two pillars on which Overwatch rested. He may have been ruthless, crude. But she knew what he fought for. Now, a black sheet covered him, and she couldn't see through it.

Slowly, people began to stand up and trickle out of the room. There were many things to be done. As much as she wished to stay in this darkened room and ponder, her time was limited. Tomorrow, things would begin to change. Maybe Genji had leaked the images. Maybe someone had figured a way through ATHENA. Maybe… this was the start of something a lot bigger. She looked at the retreating form of Gabriel, watching him disappear into the shadows. A theory began to form. And so, she picked herself up and headed for the door, as everyone else did.

* * *

The place was empty. Dust piled in every corner. Dried blood tainted an old mattress in the middle of the room. There was no light except the silver rays of moonlight coming through the barred windows. He was long gone. If he had ever been here in the first place. There was no furniture. Nowhere to find a clue. It was the end of the road. It wasn't the first time, but he had hoped it would be different today. He always did.

Tension. His jaw clenched. He wanted to scream. To stab something. But he was also tired. So fed up. The sheer will to kill his brother had propelled him all the way here. Through so much. And every time he came near catching him, he disappeared. Leaving behind a witness to question. An ally to torture. Something. But not this time. The clan had long lost him. All his allies were killed or imprisoned. Witnesses could only know so much. For the first time in years, Genji realized he had no clear lead to follow.

With a long sigh, he dropped himself on the mattress. Stabbed it with his sword. The sound was dull. His eyes widened. Maybe, he had hidden something within the mattress. A name. An address. Maybe only a word. Franticly, he ripped it to shreds. His movements were fast, erratic. His hands moved within it, pulling out pieces of cloth and cotton to look at them under the dim light. Rusty coils scraped against his prosthetics, leaving marks. Above him, particles of dust and foam flew with his movements.

Nothing. No paper, no secret box. His body stopped moving. He kneeled among the remains of the mattress, letting them cover him. He had fooled himself. He knew there was nothing more. But he couldn't let it go. His eyes searched for holes in the walls. His hands shuffled on the wooden floor, looking for loose planks. To no avail.

He remained still. It seemed he couldn't breathe. The image in front of him was of chaos. The floor boards had been ripped out, the walls scraped down. His fingers had clear indents on them, and he could feel a sharp pain pooling in his chest. He could see himself from afar. Freckles of dust and cotton dimming him. Low. Pathetic. And he could, for a moment, see his brother standing behind him. He would confirm what he already knew, and had repeated countless times. That he was useless. That he had never been worthy. That he was better off dead.

But he wouldn't let the bastard get his way. He would erase him and his words forever. And as the life drained from his eyes, he would look at him from above and smile. He stood up. Yanked his sword from the floor, and looked behind him with a glare. His brother wasn't there, but he would find him. He headed for the exit, glancing back for the last time. He turned back and tore the window open, letting moonlight flood the room.

* * *

The atmosphere at headquarters was tense. And he was in no mood to deal with it. He had plans to do, information to collect. Upon his arrival, he had wanted to head for the archives to demand ATHENA give him all previous knowledge regarding his clan. Instead, he had been immediately surrounded by agents the moment he stepped out of the carrier. Orders had come directly from Morrison. He wanted him in his office.

People in the corridors whispered as he passed, while the agents around him remained silent to any of his questions. He had been spared this treatment for years now. Going back wasn't something he desired. They had never been nice to him, and he hadn't been either. But as years passed by, he had become a teammate. A part of Overwatch. Even if he couldn't call any of them his friends, he still felt betrayed.

He had to remind himself of how Overwatch was as much a tool for him, as he was for them. At the end of the day, their opinions changed nothing. Right now, he was being escorted like a criminal. Some might say he was, after murdering hundreds. Some might say even before, being born into it. He didn't question it. It meant nothing. In a way, they all were. The only difference was who achieved their goal.

What was important was how much information Overwatch could give him. How much he could piece together to get another lead. He had reached an agreement with Reyes. Among Overwatch, he was one of the few that understood his thirst. The need. But for the past few months, he had rarely seen him. Something was wrong. When Reyes was present, he looked blank. When he was gone, it was for prolonged periods of time. He didn't care for the man's personal life, but there was something ominous in him.

He stepped into Morrison's office, expecting his familiar glare and patronizing attitude. Instead he found him seated, staring intensely at a hologram on his desk. Across from him, doctor Ziegler talked to him with hushed tones. They looked at him. Morrison's nostrils flared, his fists clenching tightly. He gestured for him to approach. He had never liked following instructions. Not when his father gave them, and not now. Morrison had always had a hard time trying to get him in line. But now, he felt his previous annoyance wither. There was something disturbing in the way the commander refused to look away from him.

He walked to the edge of the desk, adopting his standard defiant pose. The doctor cast sidelong glances at him, frowning. Morrison moved the hologram in front of him. There were pictures. Blurred. Dark. At a first glance, it seemed like any other surveillance footage. Then he saw silhouettes. A glow. Morrison's eyes glared through them. He began to speak, to question. But the man only flicked his finger, letting the images slide one after another.

It was him. It was Blackwatch. And it was murder. Theft. Torture. He recognized the places. He grew uneasy. He knew about these photos. Had had even let some be taken in an act of spite. But they had all been retrieved by Blackwatch silently. Destroyed. Yet, he saw them right in front of him. Morrison spoke.

"You know what this is." It wasn't a question. "It is the only thing the world has talked about for the past week." A knot formed in his throat. "I am sure you are happy now. Your little games have finally worked. You screwed us over." Morrison couldn't possibly believe he was the one behind it. He needed Overwatch. He wouldn't gain anything from it. It didn't make any sense. The commander knew it. He must. And still, the flame in his eyes couldn't be colder.

"I don't know- I don't care about why you did it. But let me set something straight. You-" He interrupted, desperately trying to get words out of his mouth. He was scared. "It wasn't me!" His yell bounced. Silence fell over the room. Morrison's face quickly contorted into a furious snarl. He stood up abruptly, slamming both of his palms on the table. The doctor flinched. Genji remained still, his heart beating wildly.

"It couldn't have been anyone else! I know Gabriel gave you access to Blackwatch's files! Do you think I'm stupid? Do you think we will just stand idly while you tear apart all we worked for? All I worked for?" He was leaning forward. His face was red. His neck was swollen. Genji could feel sweat forming under his helmet. The insurance he had relied on to keep him alive was gone. He was terrified.

"Jack." The doctor's voice cut through the rage. Her face was folded sternly. She looked at the commander straight in the eye, unflinching. Morrison glared at her. Then at him. He sat back down, smashing the hologram off. "I will not permit you to remain in Overwatch any longer. You have completed your mission. If it were up to me, you would be accused of treason." His eyes wandered to look at the doctor, glaring at her. "However, some don't share my opinion."

Genji's heart buckled wildly. He stared at the doctor, surprised. Glad. Her eyes were cold. Morrison continued. "You will leave immediately. Know that you will be tracked at every moment. If you take even one step out line, we won't be so lenient." It wasn't fair. He didn't deserve this. He had done everything they asked from him. He had been their weapon. Their tool. And now, they just got rid of him. But he knew he couldn't risk it. He searched for the doctor's reassuring smile, but didn't find it. For the first time, she looked at him differently. He missed her pity.

"Leave."


End file.
